She gave up, turning toward the small window sash, and clawed at the wood, grimy and caked with oil splatters and dust, desperate to take a breath, lungs tight and full in her chest. Not strong enough, goddamn it, you’re a good soldier, Randy, a good soldier …
One last look, a stumble through the one-room apartment, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
There.
On Louise’s small occasional table that doubled as a nightstand.
A note scrawled in black pencil, heavy lines.
She picked it up by the corner, lungs almost bursting, and finally rushed out to the landing rail, bending over it and gasping for air.
A balding man in a sleeveless T-shirt, mouth and nose wrapped in a bath towel and holding a wrench, was running up the steps. At the end of the hall, on the floor, with the old lady and a redheaded boy standing over her, was Louise.
Still out of breath, Miranda rushed past the bald man as he plowed toward the apartment. Rick was crouched beside the secretary. He slapped her face lightly, then slapped her again.
“Is she dead?”
“Not yet.”
“Land’s sakes. She was such a nice girl. But them landlords ain’t fixin’ things like they was before they sold the building last year. I ain’t surprised, no sir, not surprised at all.”
The old lady shook her head, turned toward the freckled kid beside her. “Alfie, you go on and tell people to open their windows and air this floor out. Can’t have no soup on til we get this gas cleared out. Mr. Foster’s done shut it off already.”
She nodded toward Louise’s apartment. The man in the T-shirt—now damp with sweat and oil—was wiping his forehead with his arm, and walking toward them in an uneven line.
“Aw, Grams, do I gotta?”
She gave the boy a prod with her foot. “I said so, di’nt I?”
Miranda knelt by Louise and dug for her compact. She held it up to the secretary’s mouth. A light fog formed very slowly.
“At least she’s alive.”
Miranda didn’t look up at Rick.
“No thanks to me. I should’ve met her here this morning, escorted her to work.”
He lowered a strong hand and pulled her off the ground by the elbow. “Quit beating yourself up, Miranda. I’m sure you did everything you could.”
The superintendent—Foster—was staring down at Louise, incredulity twisting his features into a clown mask, as he looked from the blonde to Rick and Miranda.
“I got it off. The pipe was jammed—with this.”
His calloused palm held a three-inch bolt.
Miranda gazed at the piece of metal, now twisted and bent, flat against the rough, greasy hands of the maintenance man. She jammed her hand in her coat pocket and pulled out the note she’d found, handwritten and scrawled on a piece of typing paper. Rick read it over her shoulder.
It was my fault Mr. Alexander was killed. I couldn’t live with the shame anymore. May God help my sister.
Sirens wailed outside, and heavy feet ran up the stairs.
* * *
The ambulance took Louise to Children’s Hospital on Miranda’s insistence, a quick drive to 3700 California. Miranda paid a taxi driver to stay close behind. He was a young man, previously bored, now wide-eyed at the thought of a crime occurring at the Glenarm Apartments, and eager to be in on the game.
Their destination was a graceful brick building that looked more like a university or a convent than a hospital, Romanesque arches forming shadowed cloisters set back from the street. Rick helped her out of the cab.
She stared up at the colonnades stretching out on either side of the entrance.
“You need me to stick around, lady? Maybe take you somewheres else?”
She shook her head, handed him a dollar tip, and the cabbie pulled away from the curb in slow motion, reluctant to go back to canvassing for drunks outside Bimbo’s and The Pink Rat. Rick took her by the elbow.
“Look, Miranda—don’t blame yourself. Hell, I don’t know the particulars and I don’t have to. I do know you—and I know you’ve done everything possible, and probably some things that aren’t, in order to protect this girl. So quit beating yourself up, OK?”
She looked up into his eyes, the blue anxious and supportive with a new kind of strength.
Miranda dropped the lit Chesterfield stub on the pavement and crushed it until the tobacco splintered, then started walking toward the entrance.
* * *
An hour later, she and Rick were still pacing the waiting room, waiting for the cops to arrive with Thelma, waiting for Louise to wake up.
Miranda responded to his questions but offered little else. No sense involving him more than he was already, he was about to cross the goddamn country for the goddamn army, after all, no more rat-tat-tat typewriters and late-night deadlines, no more lunches at John’s Grill, no more hot dogs at Kezar, no more Rick.
No more San Francisco, either, her home, her life. She was heading to war, a fucking Bundle for Britain, hoping to save her mother when she couldn’t save her client.
Rick and Miranda, Rick and Miranda. Rick and Miranda and Johnny, three blind mice, see how they run …
Rick stood by like a good soldier, stood straight and tall, stoic and calm. Supportive, protective. Even patient. She wondered what the hell the army had done to Rick Sanders, the newshawk with the broken-brim Champ fedora and a wisecrack for every occasion. The man with the crinkly blue eyes and the mustard-stained shirts.
The man who loved her … or used to.
Then Gonzales walked in the waiting room.
His smile was bright, white, and gleaming, skin just as tan, body just as lithe. An almost imperceptible jump when he looked from her to Rick, and back again.
Miranda blew a stream of smoke from her mouth, and strode forward to greet him.
“Fisher can’t make it?”
“No, he will have his hands full questioning Mr. Smith—”
“Smith’s finally here? When can I see him? You doing anything to protect him?”
His eyes darted to Rick and back again, strangely hesitant in his tailored suit and country club tie, the cut impeccable, hair perfectly oiled and strong chin with just a hint of stubble.
“You will have to ask Lieutenant Fisher. He was finishing the initial interview with Mr. Smith when I left and Mrs. Kyle was next. Someone will drive her here when he is through. She’s very worried about her sister.”
“And I’m worried about Miranda.”
Rick moved to stand next to her, ramrod straight, posture making him the police inspector’s equal in height. Gonzales’ brown eyes glanced at him again, this time flashing annoyance, his voice still smooth.
“Ah, Mr. Sanders—”
“Sergeant Sanders now.”
“Yes, of course. Miranda—Miss Corbie—mentioned that you had joined the army. Congratulations.”
Rick inclined his head. “Thank you, Inspector. Just a few days’ furlough before I head to Washington, D.C.”
Gonzales raised an eyebrow. “You’re leaving San Francisco, then?”
Miranda dropped the cigarette in the floor tray and said: “We don’t have time for the goddamn social hour. Can you get this to Fisher and the lab as soon as possible?”
She held up the suicide note from Louise’s apartment by one corner, hands still gloved.
Gonzales pulled out his white display handkerchief and plucked it from her, lifting it so that the fluorescent light shone through.
“This is the evidence you telephoned us about? You know, you should have left it in place—”
Rick’s tone was light. “Kind of hard to mind the p’s and q’s when you’re trying to save a woman’s life and not blow up an apartment building.”
Another flash from Gonzales as he lowered the paper, brown eyes trained on Rick.
“Yes, of course. I’m sure no real harm was done.” He turned back to Miranda. “You were wearing gloves?”
“Still am. Don’t bother look
ing up the watermark. The paper is from Louise’s own desk at work. I recognized the mark and the texture. It’s what they use at Alexander Publishing for correspondence purposes, just torn off a regular sheet.”
The tall cop studied it. “Is this Louise Crowley’s handwriting?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t even know if we’re supposed to think so.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
He smelled of leather and French cigarettes, with a hint of oakmoss, standing there, looking at her, eyes holding hers a fraction too long.
She quickly turned to Rick. “Can I bum a stick?”
“Of course, Miri.”
First time he’d used his old nickname for her. No “Randy,” not now, not this new Rick, the military, disciplined Rick with the shined shoes and the short hair and the new confidence. He’d lost the messy hat and the late-night bags under his eyes along with the half-Irish bullshit brogue and the looks of desperate longing, the stares, the half smiles that he’d worn since New York when she was Johnny’s girl, Johnny’s girl, never Rick’s …
Gonzales waited while Rick lit the Lucky. The end of the stick glowed red and Miranda pointed it for emphasis.
“Look, Inspector. This was no suicide. Somebody tried to kill Louise Crowley—somebody apparently tied in with her sister and maybe the Cretzer-Kyle gang. At least that’s what it looks like. And if they find out they failed, they’ll try again, and go after Smith, too—can’t you put a uniform on her door, get them both some protection?”
His long fingers absentmindedly stroked the thin mustache. “There has been no report of any strangers entering the apartment building—”
“Which proves nothing. She’s my client, for God’s sake—and she came to me because she was afraid someone was trying to kill her, and now they’ve almost succeeded. Jesus Christ, Gonzales, I just spoke with her this morning! She was tired, maybe even dejected—but she sure as hell wasn’t going to kill herself.”
The inspector read the note again, frowning, holding it by one corner.
“She was under suspicion, Miranda—we brought her in yesterday, after all, and then her name was in the paper. People under such circumstances often show a marked change in behavior, and that could explain the handwriting…”
Miranda shook her head. “That note isn’t from Louise—it’s written on her paper, she’s probably got reams of it at home, plus I’m sure whoever did this to her is the same party responsible for Alexander’s murder and the other attempts on her life—all of which center on Alexander Publishing—so no surprises there. But they didn’t try too hard or have the time to make it look like her hand or even a woman’s. And it was left in plain sight, almost like a warning. Besides, if Louise were the suicidal type, why come to me in the first place? Why tell me she was going in to work this afternoon? And she wouldn’t have jammed that damn valve.”
Gonzales smiled at her. “Unless she didn’t want to risk changing her mind. As for suicide, if Miss Crowley was involved in Alexander’s murder—we found the cyanide in her desk, remember, even though her alibi has thus far held—she may have been overwhelmed by guilt.”
Rick, uncharacteristically quiet, finally gave an unmilitary-like snort.
“Pigs may fly someday, too, Gonzales. That doesn’t mean we’ll live to see it.”
Miranda looked up at the tall cop, eyes challenging his. “I’m not sure of much, but I’ll stake my license on the fact that Louise Crowley did not try to kill herself. Who the hell is going to blow out a pilot light to commit suicide? Sure, the burner was turned on a little, but still—too long a wait. No, this is a setup, Gonzales, and the killer is trying to cover his tracks. He didn’t know one of the windows was cracked open, figured an eight- or nine-hour sleep would kill Louise off. The only question is where Kyle, Cretzer, and fucking Alcatraz come in.”
Silence. Rick was still flushed a light pink, eyes flicking between Miranda and Gonzales. The inspector was staring at the Formica floor. He raised his face to Miranda, muscles taut against his cheekbones, eyes sober. He nodded.
“I believe you. Others may not. We are waiting to see if her prints were found on the valve.”
“They won’t find any prints other than the maintenance man’s.”
“Perhaps. That would lend credence to your theory.”
Another silence. An ambulance wailed outside and Miranda started, eyes jumping toward the double doors they’d wheeled Louise through over an hour earlier.
Gonzales cleared his throat. “Miranda, I know you wish to stay here and wait for Miss Crowley to regain consciousness—”
“I figure Fisher sent you here, Gonzales, and I figure why. I’ll go downtown. All I ask is that you put a man with a gun on Louise’s door. She’ll wake up—she’s got to wake up—and when she does, she’ll know something, anything, that will help us catch this sonofabitch. I’ve got some ideas I can run by Fisher, but right now it’s imperative that you keep Louise safe and the goddamn reporters out.”
“Hey! We’re not so bad.”
She turned to Rick, half a smile. “Some of you, anyway.”
Gonzales nodded and stepped toward the door. “I will call a guard for Miss Crowley, then drive you to the station.” His eyes barely flickered over the man in uniform. “You too, Mr. Sanders, if you wish.”
Rick smiled, teeth showing. “Sergeant Sanders. Thanks, Inspector.”
Miranda twisted the Lucky in the floor ashtray, knocking more ash to the floor.
“You still coming, Rick?”
He stood next to her, took her by the elbow.
“Hell, yes.”
For a second she saw the old Rick, the old look, before it was subsumed in tight-jawed discipline and military posture, dissolved like the sun on a foggy day or the last, magic light on Treasure Island.
She studied him. Her tone was light.
“Sorry about our dinner date.”
“It’s not over til it’s over. And we’ve got time.”
He smiled at her, secure, confident, content.
Miranda shivered as though a cold wind blew through the room, and Gonzales poked his head through the door, summoning them to the exit.
Twenty-Two
Five years dropped from Meyer’s face when she walked through the doors of the Hall of Justice, Rick beside her. The attorney shook his hand vigorously, wrinkles stretched in a wide smile.
“Congratulations, my boy, congratulations. Delighted to see you again.”
“You as well, Mr. Bialik. I’ve got a couple of days’ furlough before my transfer—thought I’d spend what time I could with Miranda.”
The portly attorney wrinkled his brow. “Transfer? But you’re not leaving us, I hope?”
Miranda interrupted, eyes scanning the crowded hallway, thick with uniformed cops and the usual assortment of shoplifters, B-girls, and juju dealers.
“He’s headed for D.C., Meyer. Strictly here for auld lang syne. Where the hell is Fisher? Gonzales said he’d meet us.”
Meyer looked from one to the other, smile faded, and cleared his throat.
“Still questioning Mrs. Thelma Kyle, I’m afraid. We can wait in here.” He stepped toward an unmarked door across the hall. “I’m sure the good inspector will find us as soon as he is ready.”
Miniscule window on the door meant interrogation room, small and sparsely furnished, five cheap chairs and a wooden table, scarred and pitted with black cigarette burns from too many late-night questions and not many satisfactory answers.
A chunky, thin-haired man sprawled in the corner chair, legs spread out in dungarees and new Florsheim loafers, shirt like a mechanic, no tie. His head was tilted back against the wall, mouth open in a rumbling snore.
Smith.
Miranda silently motioned for Rick and Meyer to sit across the room from the author and lowered herself into the wobbly wooden chair closest to him. Then, very deliberately, she clapped her hands.
Smith’s eyes popped open and he jerke
d back, head banging against the wall.
“So good of you to drive up here, Mr. Smith. Not like anything has happened to interrupt your fishing trip—just the theft of your book, the murder of your publisher, and the near-murder of your publisher’s secretary.”
The stocky writer yanked himself into an upright posture, hands smoothing his shirt and pants, eyes blinking. Rubbed his nose and looked sharply at Rick, Meyer, and back to Miranda.
His voice was thick, like a mouthful of marbles.
“You that dame private eye, right? Corben or Karp or something?”
“Corbie. Miranda Corbie. Louise Crowley hired me.”
He grunted. “Niles pointed you out at the Sky Room party.” He cleared his throat, stretching his thick eyebrows in a grimace, and finally looked awake. “Something happen to Louise, too?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
Smith snorted. “They didn’t tell me anything. Asked me five questions for five minutes, then stuck me in a damn room. I’ve been waiting to talk to some inspector or lieutenant or whatever they call themselves, drove straight here from Monterey this morning. What’s happened?”
Rick said: “Someone tried to kill Louise Crowley, that’s what’s happened.” He walked over to Miranda and stood beside her.
Smith peered up at him. “Who the hell are you? And what’s the army got to do with anything?”
“He’s the man who saved Louise’s life. And a friend of mine.” Miranda glanced up at Rick. “Look, Smith, this is complicated, but everything—the theft of your manuscript, Niles’ murder, the attempts on Louise’s life—the reason she hired me in the first place—all of it points back to your Alcatraz book. The bulls are eager to talk to you and so am I. What the hell’s in it?”
His brown eyes were shrewd, voice suddenly clear. He pointed at Meyer, who was smiling benevolently, eyes half-closed, hands folded in his lap.
“That your lawyer?”
Miranda looked back at Meyer in surprise. “Yes, but that has nothing to do with—”
Smith shook his head, thin hair plastered to his skull. “Uh-uh. I’m not talking to anyone, much less a peeper, until I see my own attorney. Sonofabitch is in court all day down in Palo Alto, and my worthless agent—they’re all worthless—is on holiday at a goddamn dude ranch in Arizona, but as soon as the attorney gets here the coppers can go hang. If someone murdered Niles to steal my book, then it’s worth something. And before I discuss what was in it, I want some protection—financial protection. Protection for my investment.”
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